the introduction at Litchfield took place, and he afterwards spent near three months of the summer at Castle Mowbray; a period most critical to his feelings, if not to his destiny. If any one doubt the possibility of this, let him read no farther, for he knows not the heart of man. If he does know it, he needs nothing to convince him, that not merely three months, but three days, nay, even three hours, may sometimes suffice to produce what may ultimately influence his character, and colour his fate.

But though the deep print of his cousin's beauty, and still more of her grace, was stamped on the imagination of De Vere in the very first hour of their acquaintance, yet his was not a heart to be won for ever, by the force of beauty alone.

I know not, indeed, if the utmost dignity of mien or countenance, is calculated to win more, than that admiring respect, which was always the first sentiment inspired by this heiress of the Mowbrays. Something more winning soft, more amiably mild, is necessary for love to wind its way into the heart of man; and this winning softness, this amiable mildness, De Vere found afterwards in his cousin, to the extent of his wishes, with all beside which even his mind

could covet. A very few days, indeed, were necessary to show that the imposing air, which at first had so fixed him, by no means disclosed the whole varied expression of her features, much less developed the real nature of her character.

A penetration, far beyond her years, yet mingled with the greatest goodness, and a cheerfulness amounting sometimes even to archness, had at least equal claims on his admiration. Upon a first approach, especially if alone, there was that look of sedateness, if not of languor, which always attends the beautiful oval of countenance, and forms what appears a pensive brow. But the abord over, and conversation begun (if to her liking), the look of seriousness was lost, and tints of such glowing animation lighted up a mouth of rose and ivory mixed, in such beautiful play, that no two faces could seem so variable (I had almost said so unlike) as that of the individual, but always lovely Constance. Do I paint from fancy? Alas! No! I have seen it! loved it! lost it!

It was hence that in the world, Constance had two characters. She was for ever elegant and beautiful, because she could not change her nature; always self-possessed, because always full

of sense; but the character of her beauty, and, by consequence of her mind, was very differently estimated. To persons who, from having no character, were indifferent to her, or still more if possessing one that excited her dislike, she was lofty and distant. But to those she approved, and much more if she loved them, how delightfully did she display her nature, in a softness mixed with cheerfulness, which few could withstand! It was this that formed her peculiar charm, and seemed a perpetual May, spreading sunshine, and breathing balm on all around. In truth she was a creature formed alike to give lustre to a throne, or bless the seclusion of the humblest lover.

CHAPTER XVII.

She might lie by an emperor's side

And command him tasks.

SHAKSPEARE.

THERE was, at Castle Mowbray, a dairyhouse which De Vere's mother, in the days of her favour with her father, had been allowed to erect. It was not of marble, nor were the dishes porcelain, such as befit a quality dairy, in which a little fortune is sunk for ever to enable some duchess to play at milkmaids for an hour. It reared a pretty, but moderate front, on the green bank of a warbling brook, that glided through the park, tributary to the Trent. Hazles and copse-wood fringed its lower border, while some lofty acacias prevented injury from the meridian sun. A plot of velvet turf surrounded the house, and this again was bordered

with flowers, whose sweetness was fed

upon by a thousand bees. There were, at least, a score of hives, from which this favourite spot was as often called the apiary, as the dairy. From the murmuring of the stream, the hum of the insects, and the otherwise happy quiet of the whole scene, it was a place where Virgil might have sung till he forgot himself in sleep.

The keeping and elegance of the inclosure were lost with Lady Eleanor; though the dairy was always known in the family, after her departure, as her house. When Constance came, it was overrun with weeds, yet it was a spot

"Where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild.”

It had been known and loved by Constance in her childhood, when she visited it with her aunt, and was sought out and restored, with all the fondness of an old friend, when she returned a woman to Castle Mowbray.

The improvements were not quite finished, when De Vere accompanied the family from the eventful race ball, and we may suppose that he was not unobservant of the pleasure his cousin felt, and the taste she displayed in their completion. One small room, a garden parlour, of